Loved and Were Loved
by AnxiousRobot
Summary: AU. They were married in 1884. Now Charles and Elsie Carson are the butler and housekeeper of Downton, proud parents, and loving grandparents. They must find a way to care for the house and their small family as they face the tribulations and after-effects of World War I.
1. Story 1, Chapter 1

_This story is completely written up with 11 chapters and just under 13.5k words. It could be much longer, but all the plot bunnies in my head are satisfied and I didn't want to force the muse and have it end up being terrible. There are 4 Stories (all posted together here) each with a few chapters. The Stories are not in chronological order. I'll note the relevant years at the beginning of each one. The title comes from the poem "In Flanders Fields"._

* * *

**STORY THE FIRST - The Arrival  
1919  
**

"It seems very irregular."

"Jane worked here despite having a son."

"Yes, but Freddie was able to stay with her mother while she worked. In this case, our two senior servants want to _both_ work and look after a seven-year-old boy."

Cora raises her eyebrows at the name 'Freddie' but moves past it without comment. "I should very much regret to lose Mrs. Carson. She is the most spectacularly organized person I've ever met."

"Yes, but to have the boy here in this house..."

"Carson did say he worked as a bootblack when he was only ten. Seven is not so different from ten. And I cannot imagine any child being disobedient to the pair of them."

"But living here? In the servants' quarters?"

"It is just a cot in their office. It is hardly any great rearrangement or inconvenience... and has already functioned for this past week."

Robert turns from his position by the window to look at his wife. Bemused, he asks, "Why are you championing them so strongly?"

Cora's blue eyes open wide. "I just don't see the issue here, Robert. Carson and Mrs. Carson are both extremely competent and have worked here for years. If they say they can work and watch the boy, and that he will be no trouble, I believe them. And it is so very awful for the boy. To lose his father to the war and then his mother to the Spanish Flu..."

There is a moment of melancholic remembrance of Cora's own near-death and the loss of Miss Lavinia Swire.

Robert sighs, pushing morbid thoughts from his mind, and moves to stand over the couch Cora sits on. "I suppose you have a point. And we can always make it a condition that if there are any problems other arrangements will be made."

"You are wonderful, darling." Cora stands to give him a peck on the cheek. "Shall we call them up and give them the news now?"

"There's nothing to be gained by putting it off any longer."

* * *

They managed to make it to the safety of the servants' stairs before turning to each other.

Elsie lets out a deep breath. "Thank the Lord for that."

Charles nods, "They are a great family."

She rolls her eyes. It is an old difference, they way he raises The Family on such pedestals and she sees only that they are human and no better or worse than any other creature upon the Earth.

Affection has no place outside of their bedroom and office, but she breaks the rule and reaches for his hand, squeezing it. There is a silent moment of shared grief for their son and his wife. They do not allow themselves to pause for too long. Now is not the time, not in the middle of the day with work to be done. Their descent down the stairs is resumed.

"It is very hard on the lad. He hardly know either of us," muses Elsie sadly. Martin's first 6 years of life had been spent in Liverpool where Nathan worked as an accountant for a shipping firm.

"We've seen him more during the past year. It's not as if we're complete strangers anymore."

"But he's lost everything that was known and familiar to him. And he's not old enough to use logic to combat homesickness." Comforting young adults she was well practiced in but Elsie knew well that a child's mind did not respond to the same reasonings.

"He's a good lad." Carson's voice is gruff with affection and Elsie smiles to hear it. "He'll adjust with time and we'll manage until then."

"Aye, we will."

Martin is sitting quietly in their bedroom. His mother's death is still so recent, only a week old, that he prefers not to be immersed in the hustle and bustle of the house. They explain to him that he will live here at Downton, with them, from now on. The boy clings to Elsie who hugs him tightly as Charles rubs the boy's back. They are a little family now, broken. All they have is each other.

* * *

"Poor tyke," exclaims Mrs. Patmore sympathetically. "It's a good thing they're letting him stay here."

"They'd better not ask me to keep an eye on him," declares O'Brien. "And he'd better not run around and grab everything with sticky little fingers," she adds with disgust. She is not specially fond of children.

"With those two taking care of him?" scoffs Thomas. "He'll be butler before he turns ten."

"I think it's sweet, though," chimes in Daisy.

"Course _you _would," mutters Thomas.

"You'd just better be nice to that boy, Thomas," scolds Mrs. Patmore. "He's lost both his parents and doesn't need to suffer anymore for events beyond his control."

Thomas rolls his eyes and heads outside for a smoke.

* * *

The first bell of the morning rings, Elsie looks up to the board. "That's Lady Mary." Anna shoves her chair back from the table as she takes of last sip of tea. With a loud jangle, other bells join in the chorus and the downstairs turns into a flurry of activity.

Charles pushes back from his seat, tugging his vest to straighten it. He steps behind Elsie's chair to ruffle Martin's hair. "Behave."

"Yes, Granda."

"Good boy." Charles joins the march up the stairs to assume his position in the breakfast room.

Elsie sips her tea as Martin tucks into his porridge. She has until Anna returns downstairs from dressing the girls, then she will have to lead the housemaids in changing the sheets and cleaning the rooms.

When Anna makes an appearance, she smoothes out the hair that her husband had mussed. "Stay out of the way and listen to Mrs. Patmore and Anna."

"I _know, _Grannie," he groans.

"And no more of that cheek from you," she mock-scolds, smiling back when Martin grins at her.

* * *

"We'll have to send him to school," she tells him as they prepare for bed. Charles makes a grunt of agreement. "He'll have to make the walk down to the village and back on his own."

"He's an intelligent boy."

Elsie sighs as she ties her hair back and sits on the bed. "He reminds me so much of Nathan at that age."

Charles gives her a sad smile as he sits beside her, lacing their fingers together. "And Nathan got that from his mum."

Elsie squeezes his hand, leans her head against his shoulder. "Do you remember when he'd help me in the shop? I couldn't keep him away from the account books, he wanted so badly to know what all the numbers meant."

"Of course I remember. I had to alter that chair for you so that he could sit at your desk without having to kneel."

Elsie presses her lips together. "Sometimes I wonder if we're too old to do this all again." He knows she does not regret taking in their grandson, but it is true that neither of them is getting any younger and the war has taken its toll as well.

"We'll manage," he tells her. It is what she has told him time and time again.

"Of course we will, Mr. Carson. We always do."

He holds the blankets up for her, lets her slide in first. Then he shuts off the lamp and joins her.


	2. Story 1, Chapter 2

_Oh my goodness, I'm out of practice of getting reviews. So much nerves. Do I leave the story the same, do I edit it, are people going to feel like there are scenes missing, or too many superfluous ones...? My mind is exploding just a tiny bit. Contributions to the Release the Magic Smoke from AnxiousRobot's Microprocessor Brain Fund are cheerfully accepted in the box at the bottom of the page._

* * *

"Good morning, Carson."

"Good morning, mi'lord."

"How is your grandson settling in? It's been a few weeks now, hasn't it?"

Carson inclines his head in confirmation. "Quite well, mi'lord. We plan to send him to the village school in the fall."

"Well that should be fun for the lad."

"We hope so."

* * *

"Good morning, O'Brien"

"Good morning, mi'lady."

"How are things downstairs? Is the Carsons' grandson settling in alright?"

"As well as can be expected, mi'lady. It's been a bit of an adjustment for all of us."

"Have there been problems?" Cora's eyes widen, inviting confidences.

O'Brien pauses for a moment, thinking her answer through, before answering honestly if slightly grudgingly. "No, mi'lady. Mr. and Mrs. Carson keep a close eye on him."

Cora's smile widens. "Excellent. I am so very pleased everything worked out for them."

* * *

"I hate you!" the words ring down the hallway into the servants' hall and the kitchen, shocking the occupants.

In the silence they hear Mr. Carson spluttering angrily. There are pounding footsteps as the butler's voice demands, "Martin! Come back here-!" and then the back door of the house slams shut. The servants don't dare move until they hear the door of the butler's and housekeeper's office close.

"Well I never," remarks Miss O'Brien sarcastically, coming into the room from the hallway and sitting at the table.

Thomas glowers. "Old man thinks he can control us, but he can't even control his own grandson."

Anna slips silently away from the table to find Mrs. Carson.

* * *

Elsie goes to Charles first. If Martin is very like his father then he will benefit from some time on his own to burn off his anger.

She shuts the door firmly behind her. "What happened then?"

His face is lined the way it is when he is hurt or sad. "I lost my temper with him." She purses her lips, knowing now exactly what had happened. How many times previous had it happened with their son? Charles, the dear man, was perfectionistic and fastidious. He liked to recite the tale of himself as a boy when he was a bootblack and spent hours getting a perfect shine on each and every shoe. It was a semi-mythic tale of course, one that everyone has, polished by years of retelling. He forgets that small boys do not have the attention span and diligence of an adult.

Of course, she cannot forget there is another level to Martin's behavior: Charles Carson is _not _his father. Martin is so like Nathan it is disturbingly easy sometimes to forget how exactly the boy came to live with them. She makes a mental note to be more careful.

"Well, I suppose one of us will have to go after him then. Or we wait until he returns on his own."

Charles rubs his forehead, feeling the starting twinges of a headache. "What did we do with Nathan?"

"Let him run usually. He always came back when he was calmer and ready to talk... But Martin isn't Nathan, Charles. And he's dealing with much more than Nathan ever had to."

"You think we should go after him then?"

She shrugs, at a lost. "I fear not going after him will indicate to him that we do not care for him as his parents did. That he'll think we're angry with him, or worse, ignoring him."

"Surely he wouldn't think that."

"He's a small boy who's lost his parents."

There is a moment of silence as they try to think through all the implications their actions could possibly have. Charles is the first to come to a conclusion even as a knock on the door summons him. "Go after him." Later, when Martin is more secure in his life they will be able to let him work through his anger. Now they cannot afford to not reassure him that they will always be there for him.

"You will have to talk to him later."

"I will."

They move to exit the room, her to find their grandson and him to attend to their employers. Before she opens the door she stops, catching his arm with her hand. "It's not your fault, Charles."

He gives her a half smile, still sad, but understanding what she means. Regardless, he will take some of the responsibility. He used to have times when Nathan was still young that he thought he was a very poor father indeed and this has brought all those feelings rising to the surface again. In the future he will take much more care of how he acts around his grandson.

* * *

"How is he?"

His wife gives nothing away as she passes him to walk upstairs on some errand. Her look is kind but it gives him no clues. He doesn't have much time. He has to do it now before he rings the dressing gong and the hours-long process of dinner begins. He doesn't know how long the conversation will take and when the servants' dinner is over Martin will be sleeping while walking.

Martin sits at the table in the servants' hall, shelling peas with Daisy while laughing at some silly nonsense story she was telling him. "Daisy, can I borrow Martin?"

"Of course, Mr. Carson."

Martin looks worried. "Granda, do I have to?"

His first reaction is to say 'of course', but he bites his tongue, remembering his promise to take care. "No, Martin. You do not have to. I was going for a walk outside and hoped you would join me."

"Can we see the ducks? Peter says there are ducks at the pond but Grannie says I'm not allowed to go to the pond by myself."

"I suppose we can stop by the pond. Daisy, is there any stale bread we could use to feed the ducks?"

"Of course, Mr. Carson!"

Thus properly armed, Mr. Carson leads his grandson outside and across the grounds. It is beyond him how to even go about addressing the subject so he lets Martin run on ahead, trying to plan out a speech in his head. Does he apologize for losing his temper with the boy first? Surely that would be the logical place to begin. The question is, does he leave it there, or does he try to address the boy's living at Downton or the death of Nathan and Claire? He does not know what Elsie said to the boy, they have not gotten a second to speak since she went to chase after him. He does not want to stir up what she has already settled.

They walk out onto the dock where there are indeed ducks bobbing about in the water. Martin seems liable to throw himself into the water, so Charles hands him the loaf of stale bread and then keeps his hand on the boy's shoulder as a precaution. Does he talk about authority to the boy? The difference between being a butler and a grandfather? Today he ordered Martin about as if he were one of the hallboys and the boy understandably reacted badly as ordering about never came natural to Nathan. It is likely to happen again though, despite his best intentions, and he would to avoid repeats of the subsequent happenings.

"I'm sorry I said I hate you."

Charles looks down at Martin, shocked out of his thoughts. "I beg your pardon?"

Martin looks down at the water and scuffs his shoes on the deck. "I didn't mean it. I don't hate you... and, and Grannie said that if I didn't mean it, then I should tell you. And that I should say sorry."

There is a substantial height difference between the two of them and suddenly Charles feels very at odds with it. He lowers himself to the dock, groaning as his knees crack and pop. Martin laughs, the mood suddenly broken. "That's right. Laugh at your poor old Grandad," Charles mutters in mock indignation.

"But you're so slow sitting down!" exclaims Martin. He promptly drops to the dock, crossing his legs beneath him. "See? I can do it much faster!"

"Just wait until you get older then."

"I won't ever be as old as you!"

Charles humphs in indignation. He had certainly not signed up to be mocked by a child! "Well in that case, you'll take pity on a man as old as myself and share your bread."

Martin pulls the bread in two, giving Charles the smaller of the halves. As they throw pieces into the water for the ducks to eat, Charles speaks. "Thank you for your apology, Martin. I'm sorry for losing my temper with you. I behaved poorly as well."

He is not sure how he expects Martin to react, but he is oddly relieved when the boy simply nods in acknowledgement of the apology and then continues throwing bread to the ducks. It is rather peaceful, sitting in the sun and feeding the ducks. They will have to go inside shortly so that he can ring the dressing gong, but for now Charles finds his attention wandering.

He is sharply pulled from his relaxations when the loud croak of a frog cuts through the air and Martin immediately jumps up and runs down the dock towards the reeds growing along the shore.

"Martin, don't-!" There is a loud splash as Martin ignores him and splashes into the shallows. "Blast!" Charles curses under his breath as he struggles to get to his feet. He is far too old for this!

When he reaches the shore he can see the reeds bending and whipping about, indicating Martin's pursuit of the frog. "Martin, come back here!" Martin continues to ignore him. He is presented with horrifying images of Martin finding a ditch or running out too deep, losing his footing, and drowning. Without thinking he plunges into the pond after the boy.

* * *

"You didn't think to threaten him with no dinner?" Elsie is far too amused for her own good, he thinks darkly. "Food seems to be the best way to manipulate males in my experience."

"I was more concerned with him drowning," Charles grouses as Elsie pulls off his jacket and begins on his shirt buttons as he works on his trousers.

Elsie's mouth twitches in a smile but she does try to suppress it for the sake of his pride. "At least the poor frog managed to evade capture." She does up his shirt and vest as he fusses with the collar then pushes him to sit, slipping on clean socks and shoes and lacing them up as he does his tie, the sleeve cuffs, and shrugs on his jacket. She stands back to inspect him. "And just in time to ring the dressing gong with no one the wiser."

"Except for every blessed hallboy and grounds worker out in the yard."

"Oh tosh." She gathers up the wet and muddy clothes from the floor, carefully holding them away from her dress, and still managing to push him out in front of her. "Go on then, and let me take care of these clothes and your grandson before we have dinner to contend with!"

They hurry their separate ways, both thinking the same thought: any fear (or hope) of their lives becoming dull has been put to quite an end.


	3. Story 2, Chapter 1

_A/N: I'm so glad everyone likes Martin! We'll come back to him in a bit. There's a bit of a backwards time jump here, so mind the gap._**  
**

* * *

**STORY THE SECOND - Soldier Boy  
1914-1916**

They know. They both know what the other is thinking but there is no time. There is a party and guests to contend with, all plans thrown into disarray.

Some of the men stay for dinner and a council of war and speculation. (Gossip, she calls it. He indignantly insists that great men do not _gossip_.) They do not leave until very late in the night.

By the time the two of them make it into their bedroom it is almost early morning. Charles groans as he sinks to the bed, finally able to get off his feet. Elsie joins him, pulling off her boots and rubbing her feet, wincing as she hits the sore muscles and tendons.

As he removes his own shoes, she falls over sideways onto the bed, curling up behind him. "I am perfectly willing to sleep right now like this," she murmurs through a yawn.

"You'll regret it in the morning," he points out as he shrugs off his jacket and tries to figure out if he can change into his nightclothes without standing up again. Elsie pulls his jacket over her head like a blanket, curling her knees up until they dig into his side. He shifts her skirts just enough that he can run his hand up and down her calf muscle. "Come on then."

With a groan she sits up, pulling the jacket off of her head onto her lap and giving him a disgruntled look. She pushes off the bed, grimacing as her full weight once again lands on her feet. From the wardrobe she pulls his pajamas, tossing them across the room at him before pulling out her own.

Only when the room is dark and they are under the covers does she voice the question that has been in the back of both their minds all day: "Do you think he will enlist?"

She rolls over onto her side to face him, Charles shifts to mirror her position. He tries to think logically, tries not to allow emotion to blind him. "I think..." he starts, "That Nathan is not foolhardy. He knows the risks. I doubt patriotism will severely cloud his judgement."

She finds his hand with hers, pulls it close to her heart. There is very little comfort to be had when you face the terrible prospect of your only child going to war. Quietly in the dark, she whispers to him, "I am so very glad that you are too old to go to war."

It is hardly a silver lining. He would much rather face the guns than allow his only son to do so. Charles can remember the grim years while his lordship was in South Africa, and the more terrible year after he had returned. The war had affected his lordship deeply and hurt his family nearly as much.

Elsie, of course, has not seen the effects of war on man first hand. Bad enough are the memories of Charles' frowning face as he told stories of coming across her ladyship hastily wiping away tears, the children's visits to the kitchen, angry and confused, demanding explanations, and how his lordship would vanish on walks for hours on end.

Charles pulls her closer and she nestles her head into his chest. "It's late. We both need sleep."

"Worry about it in the morning?" her voice carries a touch of irony in it, but her yawn overrides it.

He yawns as well. "Sleep," he urges. She does not respond but shifts so that he can lay more in comfortably while she remains tucked against him. They do not normally fall asleep wrapped in each other's arms but tonight the comfort from it is the only way they will manage any sleep at all.

* * *

Elsie has her afternoon off first. Mrs. Harding, the postmistress, gives her a sympathetic glance as Elsie dictates the telegram. They share a sad smile. This is hardly the first telegram of its kind that has gone through the office in the past few days.

* * *

She catches him in the front hallway as he shuts the doors behind the Dowager Countess who had come over for tea to discuss the dreadful topic of Matthew Crawley enlisting. He glares at her, mindful that The Family may still be about. She just rolls her eyes at him, it's not as if she's a scullery maid, and presses the telegram into his hand.

_NOT ENLISTING STOP FAMILY SENDS LOVE STOP_

She smiles up at him. "Some good news finally, Mr. Carson."

He smiles at her, the wrinkles by his eyes crinkling upwards. "Very good news indeed, Mrs. Carson."


	4. Story 2, Chapter 2

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed the story so far. Especially Ellie since I can't PM you a personal thanks! Your reviews make my day. This chapter is a bit OC-focused, but I thought Nathan deserved it in light of future events!  
_

* * *

The bell for "Back Door" jingles away merrily.

"Well I'm not getting it," Miss O'Brien states bluntly as she pokes her needle through the fabric of the dress.

Anna rolls her eyes and puts down Lady Mary's hat.

The man at the door smiles, a pleasantly lopsided closed-mouth smile that conveys humor and a bit of self-deprecation. Anna smiles back at him. "Hi. Can I help you?"

"Hullo. I'm Nathan Carson. I was hoping to speak to my parents."

* * *

He knocks on the door that Anna had indicated, waiting until he hears the bid to enter. Inside the room is impeccably tidy, decorated with knick-knacks he remembers from childhood. His mother sits at one of the two desks tucked up against the wall.

She addresses the room without looking up. "What is it?"

"Hullo, mother."

"Nathan!" She spins in her swivel chair, surprised of course, but happy to see him. His mother is sharp though and he watches the slight frown form as she looks him up and down. "Not that I don't appreciate the visit, but can I ask what the occasion is?"

He hesitates. "I'd rather wait until Da is here."

She knows instantly what has happened. "So you're going then," her voice is quiet and resigned. He is grateful for the lack of hysterics, not that he would ever expect such from his mother. In May the newspapers had announced the terrible news: conscription had been extended to include married men. Elsie and Charles had resigned themselves to waiting for this inevitable conversation with their son.

Nathan sighs and admits to it. "My papers came last week."

"And you didn't let us know?"

He pulls out the chair from his father's desk and drops into it heavily. "I went to my medical last week, I was hoping I would fail for some reason, but apparently I'm completely healthy. I had two weeks before I was supposed to report for training which gave me time to appeal to them. The tribunal granted me a one month exemption to get Claire and Martin settled."

She purses her lips, a silent question.

"The army is a steep drop in pay from my accounting job, and although Claire's lace has been selling pretty well, it's not enough to make a living on. We have a friend who runs a shop and is willing to hire her but we have to find childcare arrangements for Martin first." He bites on his lip, worrying.

He's scared, so very, very scared. The war that was supposed to be over by Christmas has dragged on and on past anyone's expectations. Everyday it seems there's new rumors and stories drifting about of terrible, deadly weapons that kill dozens of men in minutes and the slow scarring of the land by trenches as the men increasingly fight for smaller and smaller advances.

Nathan has never thought himself particularly brave or patriotic, but he had never really thought himself a coward either. It wasn't that he's not athletic - he's fit enough and sure the training would take care of any deficiencies he has in that area. He is an accountant though, and far more comfortable with a notebook full of numbers than running through the mud. (His mother would laugh at that, he was sure. How many times had he returned home as a boy absolutely covered in the stuff?) Nor did he not love his country. He loved England, loved Scotland too for his mother's accent, and he thought the king was a decent enough man, but Nathan wasn't much keen on politics. Maybe it was due to his love of numbers, but he found politics and the complicated human interactions therein confusing and a bit vexing. How exactly did the political travails of the Austrian-Hungarians and the Serbs lead to Britain declaring war on Germany on behalf of Belgium? Logically he knew how, the newspapers had explained it all in dramatic and patriotic fashion, but he couldn't quite grasp wholeheartedly onto the cause and say he supported it. How did one abandon their family for a possible death on the basis of a cause they didn't quite support or understand?

He would have been willing to work some government or military office job. That's where his strengths were really, and it would have let him stay with Claire and Martin. He wouldn't have minded that. If there were any advertisements for any such jobs, Nathan couldn't readily find them. Likely they were saving them for members of the aristocracy too important to put in the line of fire, he thought. Instead all he found were calls to enlistment. His search was ended when his boss encouraged him to stay. Shipping would be vital to the war effort. If every young man who worked at the office ran off to fight, the ships would be grounded and the flow of cargo, so "necessary for Britain's strength and survival", would dry up.

It was good enough, Nathan had thought. He had a legitimate reason to stay, a reasonable belief that he was helping his nation in some way, the protection of his employer, and no fear of being separated from his family. Some days he had feared his father would be disappointed in him for not fulfilling his "duty". Other days he thought Da would be proud of him for being loyal to his job and employer. After all, the man had been working for the same family for... it must be around 40 years or so.

Now all the reasons in the world don't matter. The government does not see his job as useful to the war effort as his employer and, although he may be ambivalent as to the rational behind the war, he would not be able to bear the scorn of being a conscientious objector. He has no choice in the matter.

His mother's voice pulls him from his reflections. "Well, I can't say I wasn't expecting it but I had hoped it wouldn't come quite so soon." Her voice is a bit choked, although he can tell she is trying to hide her feelings from him. That's his parents: strong and stoic and always putting others ahead of their feelings. It had taken a painful trial of adolescent years to rediscover what he had known when he was young: his parents love as furiously and unconditionally as any child could hope. It is just that their love is expressed in coded statements rather than clear declarations and in persistent presence rather than physical demonstrations.

"Where's Da?"

"He's preparing the dining room for the luncheon. He'll be down shortly for the servants' lunch."

There's not much left to say.

* * *

His mother sits silently, chewing on her lower lip, as he tells his story again. Her eyes carefully watch his father's face. It's funny. He's sees the two of them together so rarely anymore that he had forgotten she did that. She always looks to his father first to judge his reaction. He suspects this is not because she is taking cues from him, but rather that her snap decision is always whether to deal first with the problem itself or with his father and his reaction to the problem.

Nathan wonders if it's a sign of nerves that he cannot pay any attention to what he is actually speaking but notices odd details. One of the doors on the silver cabinet is not shut all the way. The lampshade is hung slightly askew.

His father is silent, brows knitting together as Nathan finishes his story. He cannot begin to guess what the older man is thinking. For the past two years he has occasionally harbored the fear that his father is disappointed in him for shirking what many see to be his duty to the nation. Claire and Martin have soothed the hurt of white feathers, but Nathan is sure that if he had seen his father while holding a feather he would have been in the enlistment office in a heartbeat without his father saying anything at all.

He's not sure what he expects his father to say. He watches the man open his mouth and shut it again twice in false starts. Finally his father manages to speak, but Nathan cannot help the lump of disappointment that lodges in his throat when he hears, "Tell Claire that we will try to help her anyway we can."

"Da..." Nathan is sharply cut off.

"For god's sake Charles, he's your _son_!" Elsie stands in a rage, glaring daggers; now is _not_ the time for the man to struggle with showing his emotions! For all the aphorisms he has stored in his mind, ready for consoling - as he has done so skillfully in the past for her, for a younger Nathan, for Lady Mary - he chooses _now_ to falter?

Her shout startles Nathan and Charles. It is very rare for Elsie Carson to properly yell.

"Mum, please don't..."

She waves a hand at him, effectively telling him to be _quiet_, as she stares coldly at his father, silently demanding something of him. Charles had stared at her, shocked at her outburst, but now Nathan watches as the man's head hangs in shame. No response is forthcoming however.

"Mum, please..." Nathan stands, touches her on the arm, begging her to end the stalemate. He feels tears pricking at his eyes. This is _not _how he wanted to leave. His whole world feels like it's crashing down around him, compressing into tunnel vision of mud and death in France.

Her face softens, apologetic and loving, and she begins to turn to him but her movement is arrested as she looks over his shoulder. There is a movement behind him: the creaking of a chair and the rustle of clothing. He feels a heavy hand touch his shoulder and he turns to see his father's face, deeply lined and so very, very sad. Nathan steps closer, accepting the hug.

His father smells of silver polish and soap. His body is warm and solid and Nathan is transported back to the days when his father towered over him by feet rather than having the edge by only a few inches. He feels one hand slip from his shoulder, and he starts to pull away, thinking the hug is over. Instead, he sees his father's hand on his mother's shoulder, pulling her into the hug, including her in his apology. Nathan moves his arm to include her as well, her hair brushing against his chin as he pulls her close. In the arms of his parents the fears of France fade away. He is still scared, but it is no longer overwhelming. He will face it the best he can.

* * *

Elsie dreams of the shop, her old shop, crammed with furniture, lamps, tablecloths, and other home goods. Nathan, a small boy once again, runs about, chasing imaginary dragons and serpents and rogue knights in black armor. It is only when she hears his scream that she realizes he's vanished from her sight. She runs through the shop, trying to find him, but the scream tapers off into choking sobs and she runs and she runs but she cannot find him and the agonizing crying continues just out of her reach.

* * *

"I wish you didn't have to go."

"I know. I know." Nathan hushes Claire, strokes her hair. They sit on their bed but he doubts either of them will get any sleep tonight. "I'm scared too." The hardest words to say, choked out over the lump in his throat. The last advice his father had given him at the train station: be honest, tell Claire what you feel, share equally.

Her tears soak into his nightshirt where she rests her cheek. His lips graze her ear as he whispers, "But you're brave and strong. Martin couldn't ask for a better mother."

"Promise you'll come back?"

They both know it is a promise that cannot be made.

"I'll do my best. I'd rather be a coward than lose the two of you."

Claire kisses him, hard and desperate. He kisses her back, willing to lose himself in her for the night and to ignore for now what the morning will bring.

* * *

Martin is five years old now. Five. Nathan feels so very old. He remembers when he was five, chasing his father down the path to Downton before he was sent back to Mum and her store, escaping outside to the forests and fields and mud.

Five is entirely too big to be picked up. (When did his son get so tall?) It is also entirely too small to understand exactly what is happening. Although not too small to pick up on his parents' fear and grief and anxiety.

When Nathan bends down to hug his son goodbye, Martin promptly bursts into tears, wailing, "Don'go Daddy! Pease!"

"I have to go, my little man. It's my duty." He holds Martin close, stroking the boy's back until the tears subside into snotty sniffles. He pulls Martin away from his chest, looks at him in the eyes. "I'll write you letters, alright? You can tell me everything that you and your mum get up to. Maybe Mum will even let you write, if you ask. You can practice your letters."

Martin nods hesitantly. "I practice." His speech has apparently dissolved back to his two-year-old self in light of the current trauma.

"Good. And behave alright? I don't want any reports from Mum saying you were trouble." He pulls Martin in close again, kisses his boy on the forehead once, twice, three times, barely able to pull himself away, tries to memorize the scent and feel and appearance of his son. "I love you, Martin. Don't ever doubt that and don't ever forget it. I love you."

"I love you too, Daddy."

One more hug, one more kiss, before he coaxes Martin back over to his mother's skirts before he stands, gives Claire one last lingering kiss and a whispered "I love you," before he forces himself to pick up his bag and step onto the train into the unknown.


	5. Story 3, Chapter 1

**STORY THE THIRD - Changing Times  
1916-1918**

It is Christmas 1916, Nathan is overseas somewhere, the location obscured by heavy black boxes. They can read between the lines: war is so much worse than he is telling them.

William is chafing at the bit, desperate to go fight. It is all Elsie can do to convince him 'think of your father, you're all he has' without her emotions spilling all over the place. She likes William. It's a miracle he's avoided conscription for this long, but she fears the day when there are two boys over in France for her to fret about.

She worries for her husband as well. She hates to see him like this. His worry for Nathan caused him to throw himself doubly upon the task of utter perfection at Downton despite having been unable to replace Thomas. It's too much. He snaps at everyone, even The Family, refuses to take a break. He's walled her out and she doesn't know how to get through to him.

No one has mentioned anything regarding Nathan, for which Elsie is grateful. She doesn't know what she would do if anyone expressed sympathy. Well, she does know. Accept it quietly and steer them away from the subject as quickly as possible. She is just trying to carry on and keep the house running as normal. The younger staff need the normalcy and structure. The world does not end during a war, it goes on during and will continue to go on after. Please Lord, let there be an after for Nathan... for William if it comes to that, for Mr. Crawley, for even Thomas. She cannot think like this, she has to keep it together for the sake of everyone else, and there is work to be done. There is always work to be done.

* * *

The countdown to the holiday season went by in a blur of planning and preparation. The Family is constantly on the move, as are their guests, as they all attend each other's charity concerts and balls and dinners.

Now it is Christmas proper. The Family exchanges gifts while murmuring about how terrible they feel acting as if the war isn't affecting them, when those poor boys are still out there on the front lines. Elsie hasn't got the patience for it. Neither has Charles. Nathan is one of those boys. Thankfully, no one upstairs or down seems to pay much attention to either of them as they're all locked more firmly into their personal worries and joys by the war. The day passes in a series of grimaces, clenched teeth, and sighs.

"I'm sorry I didn't get you a present. But with the house so busy I haven't had a moment to myself."

"Hardly fair for you to apologize when I did the same."

"Well, we are a right pair then, aren't we?"

An odd tensed silence lays stretched across them. It's been happening with increasing frequency between them and Elsie doesn't know how to fix it other than marching up to Parliament and demanding they end the war _now_. Surely there are other mothers and wives who feel the same - all of them, if they had any sense in their heads. Briefly she entertains the notion of leading a mob to Westminster before pushing it away as a foolish thought.

She tries again. "We'll have to find time to purchase something for Martin before their visit. Although I daresay that'll be easier after the New Year's and things settle down."

He simply grunts acknowledgement, not really catching what she said. His mind is too caught up in a thousand details of a thousand tasks that he must take care of.

* * *

Charles trudges down the path, watching his breath freeze in the cold air. Elsie hadn't been happy to stay at Downton but he knew her hope that they could both go together had been just that - a hope, not an expectation. Downton has never been without both Housekeeper and Butler while The Family was in residence, and now short a footman and two housemaids it is even more critical that at least one of them be available.

The warm air inside the Grantham Arms is a welcome change from the biting cold outside. He quickly climbs the stairs and finds the appropriate room.

Claire opens the door for him, smiles a bit nervously. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Carson."

He smiles back, equally nervous but hiding it better. "Merry Christmas, Claire. I hope the trip wasn't too difficult?"

"Oh no. Martin was a proper angel he behaved so well." She closes the door behind him as he removes his coat. She shuffles her feet a bit, hesitating before speaking again. "Thank you so much for helping pay for the room, Mr. Carson."

He waves off the thanks, a bit embarrassed by it, and hangs his coat over the back of a chair. "We were happy to. We're glad you could visit for the holidays - after the holidays. I'm sorry Elsie couldn't come down with me but we're having to trade off shifts. She should be by tomorrow."

Claire nods, accepting this. She turns to the boy who is sitting on the floor, eyeing him warily. "Martin, come say hello to your grandfather."

Martin stands and moves to hover near his mother, clearly believing himself too old to be hanging onto her skirts but needing the maternal reassurance anyway. "Hello."

"Hello Martin. I don't suppose you remember me. The last time I saw you, you were just a baby." Charles feels distinctly awkward. It's been years since he's been around small children and the nervous anxiety between himself and Claire isn't helping matters. He dearly wishes Elsie were here to smooth over the introductions in her brusque and sympathetic way.

Martin simply shuffles his feet. His mother leans over, "Why don't you show your grandfather the toys you got for Christmas?"

Martin retrieves his toys from the floor. "Mama gave me soldiers for Christmas, like Daddy."

"He kept asking for them," explained Claire, as if she feared disapproval.

Charles sits down in a chair to remove the height difference and makes a show of examining one of the toys. "It's a very handsome soldier. Is he very brave?"

"He's the bravest one! The Germans captured him and all of his men and they were keeping them captive in a cave, but they didn't know that dinosaurs lived in that cave-" All shyness instantly evaporated, Martin launches off into a tangent-filled saga that mashes together reality and fiction in equal measures.

Charles happily endures the boy's stories. He doesn't often get to see his son's family. Elsie usually manages an annual visit to Liverpool during the Season when management of the house is less pressing, but the butler is required to accompany The Family into London so he hasn't seen Martin (or Claire) since the boy's baptism.

Martin's stories require very little encouragement but Charles enjoys playing along, even if it's mostly to be yelled at for being ridiculous for trying to add something too normal to the story. Martin enjoys rolling his eyes and correcting his grandfather though, so Charles doesn't stop until the afternoon is over and he must return to the house for the dinner service.


	6. Story 3, Chapter 2

_This chapter got away from me a bit. I have too many thoughts about this whole incident. Also, s__orry for the delayed update. I've spent the past few days sleeping off a rugby concussion and avoiding the piercing light of my laptop screen._

___ As a note, this story is completely written but obviously will not be entirely published by the time Series 3 premieres in the UK. So other than a brief mention of the much anticipated toaster in a future chapter, this story entirely disregards all speculation and plotlines from Series 3._  


___Oh! And I drew a picture of Carson vs. Mud vs. Martin and Senor Froggie. The link is on my profile.  
_

* * *

Elsie cannot stop the scullery maids and hallboys from peering out of the kitchen where she has ushered them all. She bites her lip as she watches His Lordship and Lady Sybil balance Charles down the stairs. She is thankful that their bedroom is on the lowest level instead of three floors up in the attics with the rest of the servants' bedrooms.

"Really, your lordship, I am quite recovered," Charles protests, clearly _not _quite recovered.

"Don't be silly, Carson," replies Lady Sybil. "These things must be taken seriously. You must rest until Edith and Branson return with Dr. Clarkson."

"I agree with my daughter, Carson. You must rest."

Elsie opens the bedroom door, stands aside as they lower Charles onto the bed. He will not meet her eyes.

"Papa, why don't you go back upstairs to dinner? It's hardly fair to leave Mary on her own to referee between Granny and Sir Richard."

"Are you quite sure? I don't mind staying until Dr. Clarkson arrives."

"Really Papa. There isn't anything you can do to help at the moment. Mrs. Carson and I can manage together."

After his lordship leaves, Elsie finally speaks up. "I'm sorry your ladyship, but I do have to supervise the servants in the kitchen for the remainder of the dinner service." She is relieved and amused to see Charles look both slightly scandalized and frightened at the thought of being left alone with Lady Sybil - _Nurse Crawley_.

Lady Sybil's face on the other hand flashes from brief surprise to disbelief and annoyance. "Right, of course."

Elsie and Charles exchange a glance over the top of the girl's head. Lady Sybil may be impatient with her family's unwillingness to destroy the class system, but the two servants are proud of the work they do.

Now that Charles is meeting her eyes Elsie can shove her lingering worry for him to the back of her head and focus on the rest of the house. His face is still quite red and he does not seem entirely at ease, as if planning to flee the room, but she knows that he will not and she believes the worst is over.

The kitchen is the usual hustle and bustle as they work to bring up the second course and clean the dishes of the first. Ethel thankfully has decided to put aside her attitude for the night and obeys Anna's commands with silent alacrity. Even O'Brien is carrying dishes up and down the stairs. Elsie guesses this is because she is trying to soften the punishment coming to Mr. Lang (who seems to have vanished), but she doesn't care about O'Brien's motivations and is simply grateful that for once in her life the lady's maid is doing work that is beyond the strict definition of her job.

She follows them to the upstairs pantry where Branson pulls her aside. "Lady Edith just arrived with Dr. Clarkson. They're in the hall. I've taken their coats for them." She nods her thanks and heads to the Great Hall, confident Anna has things under control in the dining room at the moment.

She negotiates with Lady Edith regarding her dress, leads Dr. Clarkson through the dining room, endures the pleasantries exchanged there, finds Miss O'Brien to go help Edith dress, and _finally_ she is able to lead Dr. Clarkson to the room with Lady Sybil and Charles.

"Oh, Dr. Clarkson!" Lady Sybil jumps up attentively.

"Thank you, Nurse Crawley. Your sister has already informed me what happened. How are you feeling, Mr. Carson?"

"Like I ought to be returning to the dinner service."

Elsie rolls her eyes as Dr. Clarkson begins pulling medical instruments from his black bag. She turns her attention to Lady Sybil. "Your mother requested that I send you up to rejoin dinner with your family."

The girl's brow furrows into an outraged frown. "But surely-!" Lady Sybil's protest dies half-formed as she realizes that Mrs. Carson has very little power over her mother. "Very well," she sighs, thoroughly put out. "Do take care of yourself Carson."

"Thank you, mi'lady." Elsie is pleased to note that Charles' voice does sound stronger, if still completely mortified at the thought of his collapse in front of The Family.

Dr. Clarkson turns to her. "I think we shall be able to manage, Mrs. Carson, if you need to return to supervising that circus of yours."

At that, Charles nearly jumps out of the bed before she pushes him back. "Oh no. It is not a circus and everyone is working together quite well. You will stay here and do exactly as Dr. Clarkson tells you." She gives her husband her best housekeeper glare, daring the man to contradict her. He gives her a resentful glare in return and harrumphs a bit, but reluctantly settles back into the bed. She's glances apologetically at Dr. Clarkson, Charles is a terrible patient, before she hurries back out to the kitchen.

She spends the rest of the dinner alternating between the kitchen and upstairs pantry, keeping everyone calm and level-headed, preventing the unexpected turn of events from sending them all into a panicked frenzy.

Dr. Clarkson interrupts her between courses to inform her that Charles has not suffered a heart attack. It was simply too much stress combined with diminished coping skills due to exhaustion that led to the mind being overwhelmed and causing the body to react as if it was facing some external threat. Apparently. Before taking his leave, Dr. Clarkson informs her Mr. Carson is currently resting in bed, and gives her two bottles of medicine: one of barbiturates to help him sleep and one of bromide salts to help treat anxiety.

At the end of dinner she helps Anna and Ethel take care of The Family while the hallboys clear the table. His lordship asks after Carson and she carefully informs him that Dr. Clarkson said that it was not a heart attack and that he should be fine after several days of bedrest, mindful not too make him too ill that his job would be put into question but enough that she can force him to stay in bed for several days. She had warned him to slow down!

The servants' dinner is a quick and quiet affair, the older servants knowing to keep quiet to make things easier and the younger servants quickly catching on to the subdued mood. Mr. Lang descends from his room, hanging his head and not looking at anyone as Miss O'Brien watches him from the corner of her eye. When the bell rings, Ethel goes up with Elsie to see off Mrs. Crawley, Mr. Crawley, Miss Swire, and the Dowager Countess. The Family slowly disperses to bed and Elsie counts the last two major hurdles for her to overcome before the interminable evening ends: who will valet his Lordship and appropriately disciplining Mr. Lang. Last _three _hurdles if she counts giving Charles his medicine.

"Mr. Lang," she calls as she descends the stairs, "if you will come into the office." The man slowly stands from the now empty table and shuffles into the room as she closes the door. She takes a breath to suppress her own feelings and reach objectivity. "Mr. Carson's attack was not your fault and I hope you do not take responsibility for that upon yourself." She watches him and believes he's doing the exact opposite of what she instructs. Regardless, she must be honest. "That being said, I don't know what Mr. Carson will wish to do but I doubt you'll be surprised if we don't have you wait at table again."

"No, Mrs. Carson. I shouldn't expect that you would."

Mr. Lang has always been taciturn and it adds to the same feeling she had when Mr. Bates was hiding his limp corrector. "I do hope that you would feel comfortable enough to tell us if you are having problems working here." She watches his face carefully. He blinks but gives nothing away.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Carson. I am very sorry for tonight. I hope Sir Richard and Lady Rosamund weren't too offended."

She smiles at him wryly. From what she had seen at dinner she was of the opinion that Sir Richard had been more amused than offended and Lady Rosamund simply liked a laugh at the expense of her mother and brother. "Not too much, no. Now, his lordship is in need of a valet and I cannot ask Mr. Branson or Mr. Brooks to do it. Do you think you are up to it?"

"Yes, ma'am. I am still able to work. I need to work." There is definitely a problem lurking there, but now is not the time to address it.

"Very well then. Better hurry upstairs."

With Mr. Lang, Mr. Brooks, Anna, and Miss O'Brien upstairs helping The Family dress for bed, the guests all gone home, Mrs. Patmore, Daisy and her crew cleaning the kitchen, and the rest of the servants trickling upstairs to bed, Elsie can finally take a breather with nothing pressing for her attention.

She retrieves the medicines from her desk. Dr. Clarkson said he had given Charles a very small dose of the barbiturates to help him calm down and relax but that he should take a full dose before he went to bed. She prepares a tray with the medicine and a glass of water. As she leaves the kitchen and heads into the hallway, Mrs. Patmore follows her.

"What happened then?"

"Mr. Lang made a mistake during dinner service and with all the extra work he's insisted on doing himself, it was just too much."

"A heart attack?"

"Not this time."

"Thank the Lord for that."

Sometimes she forgets how fond Mrs. Patmore and Charles are of each other. After all, they had worked for twelve years together before Elsie had returned to Downton. As the longest employed servants at Downton, other than Mr. Vassit the gardener, they share a kind of friendship.

The two women separate and Elsie continues down the hall to her bedroom. She pushes open the door without knocking, only to be surprised by the sight of Lady Mary standing in the middle of the room. "Oh, I'm so sorry, milady. I didn't know you were in here." For a moment she's annoyed at being made to feel awkward in her own bedroom.

"Carson was just boosting my confidence." Charles watches Lady Mary with adoration as she leaves the room.

"That's something I'd never have thought she was short of." When had Lady Mary ever been anything but fearless, even when she was acting like a foolish child despite being old enough to know better? Charles simply gives her a look. One of their old arguments of course. She buries the dual regret of their lack of daughters for him to love and thankfulness of their lack of daughters to act so conceited that always surfaces at these moments. She does not wish their life different, other than that their son might have been spared this terrible war.

She uncaps the medicine bottle, measuring out a dose. "Dr. Clarkson said you were to take this before bed."

"Must I really? I feel perfectly fine now."

She looks him over. In his pajamas he looks even more tired and worn. Foolish man. "Of course you must take it. Don't make me force you."

Charles' small smile is almost what she could describe as bashful. He's been forced on past occasions and knows it is no idle threat. He takes the medicine from her hand. "I am sorry." His voice is deep and mournful.

She sighs. "I did try to warn you."

"You did. And I was a fool not to listen." He downs the medicine, trading her the empty spoon for the glass of water. "I suppose you're not going to let me out of bed any time soon?" She merely raises an eyebrow as she takes the glass back and helps him slide down the pillow. He grumbles a bit before looking back up at her. "You'll be alright to run the house on your own?"

"Have more faith. I did learn from the best." It is a deliberate play to his ego, which he knows and appreciates.

As she pulls the covers up and smoothes out the blankets he catches her hand, stares at her until she gives in and stops her fussing to make eye contact. He looks at her, searching her face for what, she doesn't know. "Thank you, Elsie."

She drops onto the bed to sit beside him, breaking his gaze. "You foolish, foolish man, Charles Carson! Don't you ever give me a scare like that again!" Her voice is choked with emotion as she berates him. He tugs on her arm, forces her to bend over so he can press a kiss to her forehead. She closes her eyes, leans into it until he pulls away. With a sigh she stands and finishes adjusting the sheets, but she can't help but smile fondly as he breaks in a huge yawn.

"Elsie Carson, I do believe you've drugged me," he murmurs, words already becoming heavy and slurred.

She leans over, drops a kiss on his cheek, and moves to turn off the light. By the time she reaches the doorway his breathing has already slowed, close to sleep. She slips out into the darkened hallway. The kitchen and servants' hall are silent and shadowed. The others have all gone up then.

She makes the rounds, making sure each door and window is closed and locked. The walk is a soothing balm to the stress and worry of the past hours. Usually in moments of crisis she gets a wonderful lift where she feels competent and powerful and even looks forward too more tasks, knowing that she will be able to deal with them efficiently. This crisis was not a usual crisis. Having her husband laid low has shaken her more than she had initially thought.

The servants' rooms in the attics are all dark and quiet. She makes sure the door between the two sides is locked before descending downstairs. The back door is checked last before she slips into her room with her hand-held gas lamp providing a soft glow that won't wake Charles. He lies on his back, mouth slack in sleep, hair messy and covering his forehead. She quickly uses the washstand pitcher to wash her face and brush her teeth before slipping into her nightdress.

She crawls under the blankets, pressing herself against Charles' warm and solid body. She will not be able to sleep this close to him, but the feel of him and his smell completes the healing of walking the rounds. As she feels her limbs grow heavy, she rolls away from him. His arm rests in the middle of the bed and she aligns hers with his, forearm to bicep with her hand tucked under the pillow. Her breaths slow to match his until she finally drifts off into welcome sleep.


	7. Story 3, Chapter 3

"Give it here then." O'Brien takes another drag on her cigarette as she reaches for the telegram.

"No," insists Tommy Harding with defiance. "Mum says I'm to give it directly to Mr. or Mrs. Carson and nobody else."

"Fine then." O'Brien snaps at a hallboy who is stacking crates of supplies in the yard. "You, take Tommy inside will you and find one of the Carsons."

"Yes, ma'am." The boy scurries to obey, dragging Tommy by the sleeve with him. O'Brien takes a last drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out. She has a good idea of what news is in that telegram and she feels a brief rush of sympathy for the butler and housekeeper.

* * *

Elsie is taken aback by the odd sight of John leading Tommy Harding the postboy around the downstairs. "And what are the two of you doing?"

Tommy pipes up first. "Telegram for you, Mrs. Carson. Mum said I was supposed to give it directly to you or Mr. Carson."

"Well, you may assure her I have received it. John, you'll show him back out and resume whatever you were doing before."

"Yes, Mrs. Carson."

When the two boys are gone, Elsie considers the yellow envelope with anxiety, staring at the sender's name: Claire Carson. She has never considered herself a coward. Cautious yes, but never a coward. Just because it is a telegram instead of a letter doesn't mean it's anything too serious. The envelope remains unopened. Tonight. Tonight after dinner, she tells herself, when everyone has gone to bed and no one will be making demands of her, or Charles, then they can open it together and he will laugh at her when it is something silly and trivial. She will not tell him now. Even though he has moderated his workload after his non-heart-attack, Charles still resents the lowering of standards and easily become tetchy.

Even though she has spared his mind, the telegram does weigh on _hers_ for the rest of the day. Anna has to recall her attention twice, Mrs. Patmore and Charles each catch her out once. She can only be thankful she has no meetings with Her Ladyship.

* * *

They open the telegram.

* * *

_NATHAN KILLED IN ACTION JUNE FOURTH STOP LETTER WITH DETAILS COMING STOP I AM SO SORRY STOP  
_

* * *

The world stops.

* * *

There is disbelief and anger. She cannot stop crying. He cannot stop crying. Silent tears. They're each locked in their own private world and do not know how to comfort the other when their personal grief is so overwhelming.

She sits on the bed, unable to stand, hand pressed against her mouth and eyes pressed shut against the flood of tears. He stands rigid, staring at the few photos that adorn their little table, not bothering to wipe away the tears that stream down his cheeks.

As the first wave of grief subsides to a painful ache she manages to choke out some mention of tea. It is banal and British and gives them a chance to breathe and somehow find the strength to meet the second wave of grief together.

There are more tears and more tea as they choke out tales of Nathan growing up: the firsts and the landmark occasions and the scrapes he had gotten into; their dreams for him; what they had despaired over in those adolescent years.

It seems impossible that it had been any longer ago than yesterday that they had held him wrapped up in a blanket as his little fingers clutched at theirs, smiling up at them while blowing spit bubbles.

Their world has been broken and hollowed out, leaving them grief-stricken and reeling. It is past four in the morning by the time they abandon their tea and even later still when they unwillingly fall into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

"Daisy, did you knock on the Carsons' door?" Anna sets cups on the tea trays in the kitchen.

"Course I did."

"Has anybody seen them then?"

Scattered answers in the negative come from the kitchen and the main hall. "Right then, I'll go knock again. Mr. Carson won't be best pleased if he's late for breakfast."

As she approaches the end of the hall, O'Brien appears from the shadows. "Don't wake them."

Anna eyes him suspiciously. "Why not then?"

"Their son's been killed."

"No. He hasn't," exclaims Anna in surprise. O'Brien merely looks at her, daring her to argue. "How'd you find that out then?"

"Never mind that. Thomas said he'll mind the breakfast service, you know enough to keep an eye on the maids."

"And what are we to tell The Family when they ask where they are?"

"The truth. Even _ they_ aren't heartless enough to begrudge a morning off for the death of their only son."

"When did you get so charitable?"

O'Brien thinks of her favorite brother, shell-shocked and dead. "Just mind the maids."


	8. Story 3, Chapter 4

Claire's cautiously neat script tiptoes across the page:

"_...As you know, I have no close family members still living. However, with Nathan gone, I cannot help but think that family is the most important thing any of us have. If we move to Ripon, then perhaps you would be able to see Martin more often. I can sell my lace anywhere and the cost of living in Ripon is lower than in Liverpool so we should be able to manage. I have been warned that as Martin grows older he will have questions about his father and I thought maybe you could tell him about when his father was a boy his own age. I want Martin to know his father and know his family..."_

* * *

"Claire's train comes tomorrow."

Elsie looks at him in surprise. "Tomorrow? Already?" He nods in assent and she wearily shakes her head. "All this madness with becoming a convalescent home, I've lost track of the date."

"Will you go to meet her?"

She sighs as she takes the glass of wine he hands her. "I had planned to but her Ladyship or Mrs. Crawley will likely want me, and there's no possibility of you getting away."

No, there really wasn't. His own thoughts shifted back to the plans for the conversion of Downton. "Are they bringing the beds next week?"

"Yes, I assumed that would be enough time for you and the boys to finish moving the large furniture...?" He nods. "They are going to start bringing in some storage cabinets for the linens and medicines and such in the next few days. I don't know how we're going to manage to keep the hospital linens separate from the house's. We've already allotted the money the army's providing to employ helpers - the majority to Mrs. Patmore, but I believe there's enough for a few more laundry maids as well."

"If you can find any. Most of the village girls have taken to replacing their brothers at home."

"Don't sound so disapproving, Charles. Anyone would think you don't approve of girls working."

"Not doing men's work," he replied indignantly.

She stares at him, aghast. "Charles Carson, you should think before you speak."

It comes to him then. A week just months ago where she had run herself ragged doing both her job and his while he was laid up helpless and pathetic in bed. His Lordship's comment, asking if he could handle _breakfast_, saying they had done perfectly well with Mrs. Carson... She should have never been doing his job. There _ought _to have been a footman, even a second footman. No, he hadn't approved, didn't approve of her job. It wasn't because he thought she couldn't do it - even if he had, she would have proved him wrong then and years ago when she had taken on the shop all on her own. He just... likes things done properly.

Elsie sees the struggle on his face and resignedly sips her wine. She's not really that surprised. She's been married to the man for more than thirty years now, she knows him good and bad. He doesn't like change, is prone to insecurities, and that makes him act more conservative than he truly is. She has a thought that the incident with his heart shattered his notion of his indispensability to The Family - she can only imagine if it had been some other housekeeper instead of his wife covering for him. So it's a bit understandable that he's retreated so far into the protection of how things "ought to be". However, she won't pretend it doesn't hurt to be on the receiving end of it and to see him not at his best.

"I'm sorry," he finally manages to offer, not knowing how to explain himself and the convoluted thoughts in his head.

"Apology accepted." There is no point in carrying it on further. They have reached this point in their lives where they keep each other honest while still accepting each other. She remembers in the early days when they had gotten into the most colossal rows - they had been so very stupid and young then. Which recalls Claire.

"What will we do about Claire? I did write her that it was quite possible we wouldn't be able to meet her but I had wanted..." She trails off, staring at the remainder of her wine.

There is a moment of silence before Charles speaks. "Go. You can clear it with Her Ladyship in the morning and I'll cover for you."

"Are you quite sure?" She looks at him skeptically. She feels they have been pushing the boundaries of the understanding The Family has for servants' personal lives; it is strange for Charles to be so certain of their leniency. Or perhaps not. She can't keep track of what's always been there and what the war has changed.

"I can manage for a morning so long as you're back for the dinner service." She smiles at him, and he finds he can finally relax.

* * *

The train station is bustling and busy, more so than she had expected. She wishes she had Charles with her just so that he could look over the tops of everyone's heads to find Claire. As it is she has to weave her way through the crowd while keeping an eye out for her daughter-in-law and grandson.

Finally she finds them, but Claire doesn't see her so she touches the girl's elbow to get her attention. Claire jumps at the contact, but relaxes a bit when she turns and sees Elsie. "Oh, Elsie-" Worryingly, the girl looks like she's beginning to tear up.

Elsie quickly interrupts. "Come, let's get out of this crowd. Here, let me take your baskets." She picks up one of the baskets without waiting and then accepts the one Claire hands her. Claire grabs a silent Martin by the hand and follows Elsie away from the platform.

"I'm so glad you showed up. I was so nervous about trying to find the house in Ripon by myself. I'm sure I would have gotten absolutely lost on my own!"

"I'm sure you would have done fine," said Elsie confidently. She had found that displaying confidence in their abilities usually helped younger women develop some of their own. Claire did had a tendency to get nervous and anxious in unfamiliar situations. Thankfully, Elsie had learned patience over the years. As a teen and young woman without the experience of managing others nothing had annoyed her more, or received the sharp end of her temper more, than dithering and nervous maids.

She turns to Martin who still hasn't uttered a word. "How are you Martin? Did you enjoy the train?"

Martin bobs his head in a nod but says nothing.

"I think he's a bit overwhelmed," explained Claire.

"Anyone would be in his shoes." She opens up her purse and pulls out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. "I told my friend Mrs. Patmore about you, Martin. She made you some sponge-fingers as a welcome present." Well, she had allowed Elsie to take some of the biscuits intended for The Family's bedrooms, well aware they would never get eaten otherwise. Mrs. Patmore would never have baked something special, it just wasn't possible in the madness that was making a full days' worth of meals for Family and staff.

Elsie pulls the string keeping the bundle closed, showing the biscuits wrapped inside. Hesitantly, Martin pulls one out and nibbles on it. The nibbles quickly turn to enthusiastic bites and Elsie hands him the package of biscuits.

"That was sweet of Mrs. Patmore," comments Claire. "You'll tell her thank you from me?"

"I will. Mrs. Patmore always likes to know when her cooking is appreciated."

The bus soon comes and Martin scrabbles up with no difficulty leaving Elsie feeling faintly jealous. It is not dignified for her to scramble up with her hands like some African monkey.

Their new flat in Ripon is a small house split between them and another set of occupants. It is certainly small, smaller than their place in Liverpool, but then, they are on a limited income now. "At least it has two bedrooms," says Claire, obviously sharing Elsie's thoughts. "So Martin can have his own space."

"It's a good house. Clean and in good repair. You could have done much worse. I'm quite impressed."

Claire ducks her head at the praise and smiles widely. "Thank you, Elsie. It was quite a challenge coordinating from Liverpool."

Martin has been pulling on her skirts, so Claire stoops to put her ear at the level of his mouth. It takes her several tries to get him to speak loudly and clearly enough to hear the nervous question, "Which room is mine?"

* * *

Elsie agrees to take Martin out to visit the shops to buy something for lunch while Claire works on unpacking. (And likely have a good cry over this new life without Nathan. Elsie has managed to distract herself today in being helpful and efficient, but she is sure it will hit her when she returns to Downton.) Martin remains unusually silent. Usually he chirps along like a little bird with all kinds of outlandish stories. Elsie has no doubt that as he adjusts to a new town he will regain his exuberance. He is young enough that he will bounce back. She hopes.

She has never been one for filling silence with idle chatter however, so she joined Martin in his silence. They walk through Ripon observing the residents as they walk past or ride along on a bicycle. Occasionally a car passes through and they step to the side out of the way. She purchases a loaf of bread, a bit of butter, some mutton, and a basketful of fresh vegetables. Martin offers to carry the basket, so she allows him. The vegetables came from the ground after all, it won't do them much harm if he should drop them back there.

He swings the basket as he walks, the bottom skimming just above the ground. He's still silent, but he seems more alert, his eyes track the passersby as well as birds taking off from the roofs. Occasionally his walk stutters into a little half skip.

The sky is a clear blue with a few thin wispy clouds drifting past and the sun is warm with summer. It is the first time in... a very _long _time that Elsie feels at peace. There is no hustle and bustle, no emergencies, no hurt feelings, no clashing personalities. Ever since the war has begun she has felt as if she does nothing but play diplomat, constantly trying to smooth over or work around other people. She does not feel the pain of slipping standards the way Charles does but that doesn't mean that she likes the way it's necessary to compromise.

Martin doesn't care for standards. Nor is he acting out the way she might expect of a young boy missing his father. He walks and jogs and trips along beside her and she feels... content. Not happy. It is too soon for that, and this outing still reminds her that her son is gone - which reminds her William will soon be on his way to France... But as she had told Charles: life goes on, even in wartime, and this is the first time she doesn't have to force it, insist on it, or deal with it, but can simply accept it.

Claire opens the door for them, eyes rimmed red, but smiling. She stoops down to hug her son, questioning him about their walk, manages to coax a story out of him about two birds that has been fighting over a scrap of bread in the street, hugs him again as she beams up at Elsie who can't help but smile back. This time when she thinks that they might be alright, she really believes it instead of just hoping.


	9. Story 4, Chapter 1

_A/N: Now that we're through one tragedy we're doing another large time jump where I've got some fluff on tap!  
_

_Also, I have the Crawleys in London. I don't know if it's for The Season, or if they had to go have a family conference with Murray, or what. They just had to go for long enough to warrant opening the house and bringing some the servants with them. Author's License wat.  
_

**STORY THE FOURTH  
1919-1924**

* * *

"Mr. Carson, I thought the telephone was only to be used for business or emergencies."

"I fully intend to discuss business with you, Mrs. Carson, but it would be quite rude of me to open a conversation without exchanging pleasantries."

"I see. Well in that case, how is London?"

"Oh the usual: busy, noisy. I'll have a few hours to myself on Tuesday, I thought I might go see a film."

"A Theda Bara one?"

"I should have never told you about that."

She laughs.

The conversation pauses, relaxes, before he ventures his question. "How is Martin doing?" What neither of them had anticipated when Charles had to leave to accompany The Family to London was that the boy had some rather terrible associations with male caregivers leaving on trains. The departure and the few days after had left them all upset and on edge.

Her voice immediately sobers although her tone has her usual cautious optimism. "Quiet, but he seems happy enough lately. Do you have time to talk to him if I fetch him?"

"I should have a bit of time. It'll have to be quick though."

She leaves the earpiece on the desk, hurrying to the back door and to the edge of the yard. "Martin! Come here!" The boy abandons his rug beater (maybe someday they could get one of the new Hoover vacuums she's heard about) and hurries over. He's learned by now that when Grannie says come, you _come_. "Your granda is on the phone and wants to talk to you."

It's slightly disconcerting to see how fast the boy picks up on how to use the telephone. All she has to do is point to the parts - "you listen here, and talk here" - and immediately the boy is all smiles as he talks to Charles.

"I've been helping to beat the rugs!" It keeps him nicely occupied and supervised while she works in the house where she doesn't trust an energetic young boy around priceless heirlooms. It also wears him out nicely; has him out and snoring the second his head touches the pillow. Goodness knows she needs that without Charles, Anna, or even O'Brien around to be extra pairs of eyes. (However unwilling in O'Brien's case. The lady's maid can't help herself but correct poor behavior when she sees it.)

"I saw a film once, in Liverpool! Daddy took me when he was home on leave. It was a cartoon about a police dog..." A scene-by-scene description occurs then and Elsie allows herself a moment to relax at the offhand mention of Nathan. She is glad the boy has happy memories he can recall. The scene at Charles' departure shaken her more than she cared to admit.

The movie description apparently takes up Charles' allotted time, because Martin is quickly saying goodbye and handing her back the earpiece. She waves him off back to the rugs. "Good job, Granda."

Charles sighs in relief. "We're starting to get the hang of this again. Now, about the invoices..."

* * *

Charles returns to Downton on the same train as The Family - apparently there had been some minor mishap that needed sorting which prevented his taking an earlier train - so their greeting is constrained mostly to a quick clasp of hands and a smile. Very rarely has she resented their agreement to absolute professionalism in public as much as in that moment. Martin receives a quick hug and mussed hair before he is sent out at a trot to help fetch the luggage from the car.

Even with advanced preparations completed for dinner (God bless the telephone), the day is a whirlwind of unpacking and running back and forth to do the little but numerous tasks required to get everyone settled again. The fourth time that she trips over Martin in the downstairs hallway, Elsie shoos him outside, telling him for heaven's sake to go play and stay out of the way, and doesn't feel guilty a second for doing so.

Of course, that means at dinner time when Martin returns he almost instantly latches on to Charles. She shifts the seats to put Martin between the two of them, and the boy spends the entire time nattering on about everything he had done while Charles was away. The dear man is extraordinarily patient with him and pays close attention, responding with appropriate disbelief or awe as the story requires.

They eat dinner quickly, fully expecting The Family to go to bed early, but they aren't fast enough. One by one the bells chime out and the summoned scoop up their last few bites before hastening up the stairs. She catches the way his eyes close and he exhales roughly before shoving himself up off the chair.

As the table is cleared, she turns to Martin who lingers in hopes of catching an extra helping of dessert. "Bedtime, I think," she says lightly.

"But I wanna say goodnight to Granda." Martin looks up at her, eyes large and pleading.

"If you get dressed and hop in bed, you read until he comes down and I'll send him in to say goodnight. Does that satisfy?"

"But Grannie, I wanted..." He bites on his lower lip.

"It's been a long day lad. He'll be here all day tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, and far more awake then."

"Do you promise?"

"I can assure you it's quite likely. Now run along and wash up."

She clears off their desks and sets up Martin's bed. He arrives in time to help her put the sheets on and then she leaves him to change. She checks that the women's corridor is dark and quiet and the door between sides is locked, then uses the water closet to wash up.

She waits for Charles in the darkened Servants' Hall, doing her best not to doze off where she sits. Her day hasn't been as long as his, but it's been a high strung sort of day and the energy has worn her out. By the time Charles comes back downstairs, she's almost forgotten she's been missing him and that he hasn't been by her side at Downton all this time. Almost.

"Long day," she murmurs, taking his lamp from him and extinguishing it.

He merely grunts in agreement and pulls her to where he can press a kiss to her forehead. She closes her eyes and leans into it, savoring his presence. She adjusted long ago to his absences, but it never lessens how glad she is to see him back. Everyone else has long trudged to bed, so she tilts her head up to press a light kiss to his mouth. They linger there, tired, revelling in the closeness.

They linger there probably longer than they should, in their tiredness forgetting where they are and how long it's gone on. Eventually though she pulls away, watching him blink as he comes back to the real world. She suspects she looks similarly dazed.

"I told Martin you'd say goodnight."

He nods and lets go of her hands, rubs one of his down the side of his face.

She hovers in the doorway as he goes into the room, asks Martin what's he reading, smiles and nods at the answer, puts the bookmark in the page and the book on the shelf, pulls the covers up and tucks them around Martin, and then turns off the light.

"Goodnight Granda. Goodnight Grannie," comes the small voice from the darkness, already lazy with sleep. They respond softly in kind and shut the door. They stay there, leaning against the doorway in the gloom of the hallway, standing too close together, leaning on each other as much as the walls. He leans his cheek against her hair, she presses herself against his chest. They should go to their room, but they're trapped in a tired apathy where it is easier to remain where they are.

"The move went well."

"It did."

"Will we be doing anything significant this week?"

"They haven't indicated so. To be honest, they'll likely lay low for a week. The talk about Sir Carlisle and Branson still haven't died down yet."

She smiles at the indignation in his voice. "Lady Mary had a rough time of it?"

"She doesn't deserve this."

She strokes his arm, calming him. "It will die down soon enough."

His shirt is smooth against her cheek, warmed by his skin. She can hear the soft lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub of his heart. It's a lulling sound, and she doesn't even notice that she's closed her eyes until some undetermined time later he moves and she bobs back into a wider awareness.

"Bed, I think," he murmurs, his voice rumbling through his chest and into her.

"I agree." It still takes her another minute to pull away and stand on her own.

They drift to bed trading lazy kisses and caresses, reimmersing themselves in each other's presence until they finally give in to sleep.


	10. Story 4, Chapter 2

_A/N: Aargh. I can't stand all this s3e2 angst. It's wonderful but it's just destroying me. I have no idea if weekly boarding plans existed in the 1920's but I'm using Author's License again.  
_

**October 1920:**

When Elsie pushes open the door to the office, Martin is already awake, sitting at her desk drawing away. He turns when he hears the door open. "Morning Grannie!"

"Happy Birthday, Martin."

The newly-ten-year-old grins broadly, and she's cheered to see it. Last birthday had been a painful reminder for all of them of the absence of Nathan and Claire. The first birthday without parents, the first Christmas, the first time Charles left for London: slowly they are moving past all of the firsts and beginning to find a new equilibrium.

"Your granda says you can choose between presents now or tonight after dinner."

Martin jumps from the seat. "Now! Please Grannie, presents now?"

Of course. "Go on then. Knock and see if he's ready yet - Mind that you knock!" Martin is already out the door and down the hallway.

Charles comes out the door, grumbling good-naturedly at being rushed in his dressing and shaving.

"Granda, can I have my present now? Please? Grannie said you said I could have it now if you want!"

"Oh, Grannie said that, did she?" Charles' eyebrow lifts inquiringly.

"Yes! Please say I can have it. I can't possibly wait until after dinner!"

Charles laughs. "Alright then. Since it is your birthday."

"Piggyback?"

"You're very demanding today." He _almost _manages to look stern and disapproving.

"_Pleeeaaase?"_

"Up the stairs then." Martin quickly climbs the two steps by the back door and Charles stoops slightly so the boy can scramble onto his back.

When they make it back down to the office, Elsie looks at Charles' disbelievingly. "You'll throw your back out, Charles."

"Nonsense, if I can spend my days hauling around heavy tea trays and silver dishes I can manage to give Martin a piggyback twenty feet down the hallway." It won't be much longer until the boy is too big for a ride and too old to ask. "Off you come then," he commands Martin and the boy slides down, dropping onto the floor.

"I can have my present now?"

Elsie unlocks the bottom drawer of her desk and pulls out a wrapped box, pushing Martin's papers and pencils out of the way, and sets it on top of the desk. Martin tears into the paper in a hurry, scattering scraps around him. An old wooden clock, clearly second hand, emerges from the paper and box. Martin is delighted and immediately begins examining the clock from every angle.

Charles allows him to continue this for several minutes before asking, "This is what you wanted then?"

Martin tears his attention away. "Oh yes! Thank you, Granda!" He wraps Charles' legs in a hug and then Elsie's. "Thank you, Grannie!"

"You're very welcome, Martin," smiles Elsie.

"I suppose you'll be needing these then." Charles removes a small screwdriver and a pair of pliers from his pocket and hands them over. "Mind you don't get parts everywhere. Keep everything in the box and you may keep the box on Grannie's shelf."

Martin nods eagerly. Charles stops him before he can get lost in the clock again. "You have two hours before breakfast. Then you'll have to put it away and get ready for school."

Martin groans. "Do I have to go to school?"

"Yes. Even birthday boys have to go to school. We still have to work on our birthdays."

"That's not right," mutters Martin.

"You'll have the whole weekend to dismantle the clock," Charles reminds him. "And right now you're wasting time."

Martin's sullenness instantly vanishes at the reminder that his present is waiting for him. His attention completely absorbed by the clock, Elsie and Charles slip out of the room. "All that over a clock," laughs Elsie.

"Reminds me of a certain grandmother who bought herself an electric toaster as a treat."

"Yes, but that was to use, not to dismantle," she reminds him.

He just looks at her knowingly and she shakes her head in amusement.

* * *

"Aaagh," growls Martin as he slams the pliers down on the desk. Immediately he feels guilty and looks about to see if his grandparents are around. Assured of his isolation, he slumps back down in the chair, folding his arms across his chest crossly. The stupid clock refuses to go back together. He's always left with extra gears and springs that refuse to fit in together. It had seemed so simple when he was taking it apart! He had been _sure _he could remember how it all went together. Now, weeks later, the clock is still disassembled and he has increasing difficulty remembering which parts connected to each other. He grabs the box and, holding it under the lip of the desk's surface, sweeps in all of the little pieces that used to be the insides of his clock. He shoves the box onto the shelf.

The sun shines through the window, taunting his foul mood. He's sick of being inside, locked up with his clock. Stupid thing. He grabs his old dog-eared copy of _Treasure Island_ and shrugs on his jacket and hat. Winter is coming soon. He'd much rather enjoy the last sunny days of autumn outside reading than fight with his broken clock anymore.

* * *

**September 1922:**

"Come on, Grannie," Charles puts his arms around her shoulders, gently leads her away from the school. He has to overcome his own resistance in every step, feeling the tug backwards just as strongly. "He'll be back in just five days."

A few years ago they were overjoyed to see Martin once a month or so. Before that... well, he was overjoyed to read Nathan's letters about the boy and hear Elsie's tales from her annual trip to Liverpool. Now they can hardly imagine seeing the boy everyday.

At the end of the path he cannot help himself and turns back to regard the school. Ripon Grammar will take a bite out of their savings even with the scholarship, no doubt about that. Despite all the practical worries that have been pestering them for the past months, it all fades to silence for a moment: This is where their grandson will make friends, learn lessons, and grow into a young man. They will do their best to encourage him and keep him on a straight path, but it will be hard when they will only be able to see him every two days of seven and on holidays. Charles can only remember his foolishness as a youth - the heady, delirious days when he thought singing and dancing had been a wonderful adventure and not the quickest way to ruin.

He breathes out, a bit shakily.

"Come on, Granda." Elsie pats his arm. Together they lead each other away.

* * *

**March 1924:**

"Carson, I came across your grandson earlier while I was out walking. He said he attends Ripon Grammar?"

"Yes, your lordship. This is his second year there."

Lord Grantham frowns. "You never said anything."

"No, your lordship."

Lord Grantham frowns more. "Why ever not?"

Carson cannot entirely hide his confusion. He had been of the impression that His Lordship was not entirely comfortable with the idea of Martin living with them at Downton when they had first approached him about it. He and Elsie have always been very careful to keep the boy out of The Family's path. "It was not a matter regarding the household."

"Yes, but-" The Earl pauses. "Is he doing well? I got the impression he enjoys it there?"

"We're happy with his work. He rather excels in mathematics."

"Ah, is that so?" His Lordship looks as if he wants to ask another question, but no such question is forthcoming.

"Is there anything else, your lordship?"

"What? No, no. It's fine, Carson. I think I'll go through and join the ladies now."

"Of course, milord."

* * *

"Carson, last night about your grandson..." he hesitates on the name.

"Martin, milord."

"Martin, yes. You're... well, not to pry, but you're managing to, well, afford it alright?" It was safe to say this was one of the most awkward conversations the two men had ever had. "You would let me know if you were having any difficulty?"

He would not. It wasn't proper for a servant to ask for a raise. Martin knew the conditions of his education. "He earned a partial scholarship, which helps. And he works as a hallboy over the holidays." It is only years of training that keeps Charles from shifting uncomfortably on his feet. That question alone had been painful enough for him to ask, but His Lordship had approved of paying their grandson partial wages so long as he did the same work as any other hallboy. Elsie has stopped her occasional purchases of hats and coats (and electrical gadgets), he has refrained from adding to his book collection and no longer goes out while in London. They have never been frivolous spenders but with careful penny pinching they are managing to make it all work.

His Lordship however seems unwilling to let the subject drop. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help?"

"I don't think it would be proper, milord."

"Ah, yes. 'Proper'." His lordship sighs and takes a stiff swallow of his port.

Charles is now certain there is something else going on that he is not aware of, but servants do not pry so he must lay it to rest. If it is anything too important, His Lordship will reveal it sooner or later.

* * *

**August 1924:**

Charles stalks down the men's quarters making sure all the lights are off and the rooms are quiet before he retires for the night. Of course, under the very last door there is a glow of golden light. He knocks briefly and pushes open the door. "Martin..."

Martin, George, and Edward all look up from where they are clustered about the chest of drawers. Through them he can see scattered sheets of paper, string, bits of wood, and a bottle of glue.

"It's well past lights out time."

"Sorry Granda," Martin murmurs as all three boys hang their heads. Not that Martin is ever one to stay chastised for long. "I finished my plane though, look." He slides his chair away from the furniture and shoves the two older hallboys out of the way. Revealed is in fact a small toy airplane. "See, the propeller works because of this rubber band..."

"Martin, may I remind you that over the summers you are considered an employee of this house, and as such we expect you to fulfill the same duties as the other hallboys?"

"Yes, Granda."

"And you will not be able to do so if you are tripping over yourself yawning. Not to mention you're keeping George and Edward awake."

"Sorry Granda. We'll go to bed now. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Martin. George, Edward."

"Goodnight, Mr. Carson."

He waits outside the door until the light is turned off and the rustling of sheets and mattresses calm before heading back downstairs to his own room.

Elsie is already in bed, waiting for him with a book. "Martin keeping them all up late again?"

"Why did we ever think it was a good idea for him to live with the hallboys?"

"Because he's working as one of them. Because we thought it was a good idea to teach him the value of hard work, so we can count his wages as livery and we don't have to pay for his meals from our salaries anymore, so we can continue to pay for his education-"

"It was a rhetorical question. I was involved in the decision."

She smirks a bit at that - it had been his idea. "Has he finished his plane?"

"He says he has..."

"I'll make sure he doesn't shirk his duties to go test the thing. Don't worry." She pauses as he joins her in bed, marks her place in the book and puts in on the bedside table. "You should go with him when he tests it, after you missed the other test flights for The Season. They're quite clever really." She leans in for a quick goodnight kiss as they settle under the covers.

"Mmm. Perhaps. If he can wait for me to find the time."

"Of course he'll wait if you ask him to. He'll be thrilled."


	11. Story 5, Chapter 1

_A/N: So I had to work out all my s3e2 feels somehow and the result is this angsty "bonus" chapter. It's a jump back in time to the death of Claire. The last chapter with happy-family-feels will be up in a few days!_**  
**

* * *

**STORY THE FIFTH  
1919  
**

* * *

Martin wakes from the sun on his face. The sun's usually not this bright when he wakes up. He pushes off his covers and sits up. His head swims, protesting the movement. "Uggghhh," he falls backwards onto the bed. He doesn't feel good. His body hurts, his head hurts, and his throat is sore and scratchy. He calls out "Mum?" His voice comes out quiet and hoarse. It hurts so bad. He closes his eyes, the sun hurting his head. He strains to hear Mum's footsteps but there's only silence. His throat hurts so bad. He wants water. "Muuummmm?" Still no answer. She probably can't hear him with his voice all funny.

Slowly he rolls out of bed, clutching onto it as the room swims again. He needs water. He needs Mum. Soon the pain and dizziness lessen and he shuffles across the room. Their main room is deserted, the stove cold and empty. The sink taunts him but he can't reach the glasses on his own.

Martin drags himself to Mum's bedroom door. He knocks twice and he leans listlessly against the wood. "Mum?" There's no answer so he pushes the door open. His mother lies sprawled across her bed, blankets kicked off onto the floor, her face pale and shining with a sheen of sweat. She doesn't seem to notice him so he creeps to her bedside, shakes her arm that feels clammy to his touch. "Mum, I don't feel good."

Her eyes open slowly, and she blinks at him a few times without recognition.

"Mummy, my head hurts and my throat hurts."

Her eyes widen and she lifts a shaking hand to his forehead. "No fever," she murmurs. Her voice is as scratchy as his. She closes her eyes, then pushes herself to a sitting position, one hand grabbing for the bed the other for her head as she sways precariously. Martin latches onto her arm in worry.

"Let go, baby." He doesn't feel well enough to protest being called baby and lets go of her arm. Mum stands, swaying a bit, and all color instantly drains from her face. She takes a few steps to the door and then stops, leaning against the wall, breathing heavily.

Martin is terrified. What is wrong with his mother? She turns and slides against the wall to the floor as he rushes to her, ignoring the pounding in his head at the motion. "Mum? What's wrong?"

She takes his hand, presses it to her forehead the way she did to him. The skin is hot to the touch, her whole body shaking, and he pulls his hand away quickly. "Martin, can you be a very brave boy for me?"

"Brave like Daddy?"

"Yes, brave like Daddy. Do you remember where the doctor is?"

He knows where the post office, the police, and the hospital are. The post office has a phone if he needs to call Granda Charles Carson and Grannie Elspeth Carson at Downton Abbey. The police are for if something goes wrong and Mummy isn't around. They can also call his grandparents. The hospital is where the doctor works. Martin thinks of the brick building they have taken frequent walks to. There is a sign at the door, painted blue, with big letters that say "RIPON HOSPITAL". He goes down their street, turns left, walks past two streets, and turns right. At the end of that street is the the hospital. "Yes, Mummy."

"Good boy. Can you go get the doctor or a nurse and bring them there? Tell them-" she stops to cough, a painful sound.

"Mum?"

She grabs his hand. "It's okay, Martin. We're just sick. You need to tell the doctor how you feel and that your mother has a fever. Repeat that?"

"Get the doctor. Tell him you have a fever and bring him here."

"Good boy." Her eyes close and she leans her head back against the wall.

"In my night clothes, Mummy?"

She opens her eyes, blinks at him once or twice, before grimacing and closing her eyes again. "It doesn't matter, Martin." She coughs again, longer than before. "Go baby. Go get the doctor."

"I love you, Mummy."

"It'll be okay, Martin. We're just sick and need a doctor. I love you too. Now go."

Martin goes.

* * *

Elsie knocks on the door, shifting her grasp around the basket she carried. After a minute or two there is no reply so she knocks again. Claire and Martin ought to be home. She had confirmed her afternoon off with them in a letter last week. Suddenly the door jerks open, catching her by surprise.

An unfamiliar woman stands in the doorway, dressed in the gray dress and white apron of a nurse. "I'm sorry, but-" the nurse starts

"Is something the matter?" Of course something is the matter if there is a nurse opening the door. "This is my daughter-in-law's house, and my grandson's. Are they ill?"

The woman stands firmly in the doorway, although her voice is cautious. "Yes ma'am. But you see... we think it might be Spanish Flu."

Elsie's blood runs cold. "...Both of them?"

"Yes, ma'am. Although the mother has it worse than the boy."

"Claire and Martin," she corrects as she pushes her way past the nurse into the house. "I'm sorry, what is your name?"

"Nurse Scott."

Her coat is already off as she removes her hat. "You may call me Mrs. Carson. Now, Nurse Scott, what can I do to help?"

* * *

"It's bad, Charles. Martin seems to be doing alright. He hasn't developed a fever, he's just a bit sore and groggy, the poor lad. But Claire started vomiting an hour ago and her fever just keeps getting higher. Nurse Scott wanted to take her to the hospital but they turned her down because they don't want it to spread." She keeps her voice low, glancing around as she talks. Thankfully the post office is mostly deserted and the man behind the counter had vanished into a back room with some packages.

"Do you want me to come down?"

"What about the dinner service?" A stupid question from a stupid woman. For all their arguments across the decades regarding his obedience to The Family versus his dedication to _their_ family, she chooses _now_, when they both know too well that "doing alright" can turn to "dead" in a matter of hours, to inanely question the dinner service? She blames the nerves.

"Thomas and Anna can manage." His voice is firm, the commanding butler voice that brooks no argument. "I'll be there as soon as possible."

She takes comfort from his voice and re-fortifies herself against the memories of Miss Swire's funeral not even weeks earlier. She needs to get back to the house. Nurse Scott had agreed to stay only a bit longer to watch them while Elsie ran the post office to make the call. "I love you, Charles Carson."

The commanding tone drops, his voice becomes warm and caressing. "And I love you, Elsie." And then he hangs up.

* * *

Charles is sitting on the bed beside Martin when she comes in with the news. The boy had been cranky and tired after being unable to sleep most of the night due to achy muscles and a dripping nose. Elsie had suggested hot chamomile tea with plenty of honey. When combined with a reading of _Robin Hood_, it was a surprisingly effective remedy for insomnia.

They are still in the dark early hours of the morning. When he sees her face, he knows what has happened and his heart breaks. It makes no sense that the disease should take the young and spare one as old as himself. War and the Spanish Flu: together they seemed to have turned the natural order of things on its head.

He brushes the hair from Martin's forehead, checks that the boy is thankfully still without fever. The boy snuffles in his sleep, but his body is too exhausted from fighting the illness for him to wake so easily. Charles eases himself off the bed, lets Elsie lead him into the hallway and shut the bedroom door.

It seems there are no tears left in them, or maybe the shock is just too great. They have reached their quota of grief and cannot process anymore. For want of something for their hands to do, they make tea.

They sit at the table, not drinking their tea, not talking, but simply staring into space. Nurse Mitchell - fetched hours before when Claire suddenly took a turn for the worse - joins them, accepts a cup of tea wearily. She drinks it, offers her consolations, gently tells them the hospital will contact them in the morning about the body. They are too worn down to do anything but nod their thanks and Nurse Mitchell has done this often enough to not take offense or offer additional platitudes or advice. She leaves them, and they continue to sit as dawn slowly breaks and begins to fill the house.

"Did she saying anything? Before..."

Elsie shakes her head. "Her fever was too high, she was just babbling in delirium. And then she wasn't able to breathe..." He clutches her hand as she relives the horrific moments. She had been in Miss Swire's room just moments before the girl's death, changing the sweat-soaked blankets. She had heard the girl's gasps for air as she had tried to talk through the fluid in her lungs. That had been a relatively calm death. Claire's had been a violent one - violent with a sudden terrible surrender.

They are struck at the same moment with the desperate need to check on Martin.

The boy is still sleeping, more calmly than when they had left him. They take turns, both checking the boy's cool forehead and the soft puffs of breath from his mouth. This is their family now: a small boy and Elsie's sister in Lytham St. Anne's.

"They will let him live with us, won't they?" she breathes the words out softly, her forehead wrinkling in a frown.

A child living in the servants' quarters? He's never heard of such a thing. Of course, it is not so uncommon to employ children as young as ten or eleven, from families that need the extra money, to be boot-blacks or laundry maids. They work though, and more often than not return to their families in the evenings. "Temporarily at least... I've always expected a cottage when we retire. Perhaps that moment will just come sooner than we thought."

"You'd retire and leave Downton?"

Charles wishes she wouldn't sound so surprised. "I can't say I wouldn't be sad to leave, but..." But he has outlived his son and survived a disease that has struck down his daughter-in-law. When he tried to cling tighter to his job it knocked him reeling. It strikes him as all rather futile now and here is a small boy, utterly dependent on the two of them for his future. He sighs helplessly, "I could hardly ask you to retire and take care of Martin on your own." How his opinions have changed in 35 years.

"You may not need to. The Crawleys are hardly the most usual aristocratic family-" He looks at her askance in surprise. She laughs softly. "Just because I don't worship them the way you do doesn't mean I cannot admit they're hardly the most usual of employers." Their hands meet, offering and taking reassurance in equal measure. "We'll talk to them and see what they say. No use worrying until then." A short huff of breath lets him know she's trying to convince herself as much as him.

The whole conversation has been held side-by-side, watching Martin instead of each other. There are too many feelings, too many memories, and too many hopes to sort through. One moment Elsie feels as if she's thirty years old again and watching over Nathan instead of Martin. The next she feels so very old and wonders how much time they have left to give to Martin before they leave him too. Charles' non-heart-attack two years ago was a painful reminder that they are not getting any younger.

She takes her own advice, shoves the thoughts to the back of her mind. Martin is looking better, it is likely his appetite will have returned and she doesn't know what is in the pantry. More sobering, Claire's room needs to be cleaned, the sheets taken care of, the wet towels they had applied... if she can bear to go in there. She will. She needs work to do, needs to be busy.

Charles' thought process mirrors that of his wife. He doubts he will ever shake the lingering guilt of surviving what the younger generation did not. However, his priority cannot be himself. There is his family to take care of and his job, the hospital, a funeral home...

The tears will come later. For now they are two dedicated, efficient servants working to serve one small boy.


End file.
